


Things Ain't Like They Used to Be

by nolongeralostswan (Annewrites)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annewrites/pseuds/nolongeralostswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Swan AU set between season 3A and 3B. Having forgotten about their life in Storybrooke, Henry and Emma relocate to Langley, Washington, a small island off the coast. A private investigator, Emma Swan receives a case from a mysterious client, who hopes to find his long lost son. About to drop the case, Emma runs into the “long lost son” unexpectedly at her local coffee shop. Drawn to him despite herself, Emma struggles to disassociate from his case, until Killian Jones enlists her help to solve his own mystery. Surprised by his proposal, Emma starts to connect the clues he’s given her and they lead her to a small town in Maine…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling over in Langley

Killian rarely gets coffee this early in the morning. but last night - _dear Gods, last night_ \- had been an absolute buggering fuck-up of an evening. He’d hoped a drink would chase away the ever-present sense of wrongness in his life but the rum had only heightened his awareness of it. Arriving to work in a timely manner now took a backseat to his desire for caffeine; he tells himself he deserves some espresso to chase away the hangover.

He has been to the coffee shop on the corner a total number of six times in his life. He likes this number; it’s a factor of his age (32); it’s the amount of years he’s spent in his flat; it’s the time he wakes up in the morning. There’s something oddly satisfying about this number and Killian hasn’t yet figured out why he likes it so much. But there’s a lot about his life he hasn’t a clue about; he has spent many an odd night searching for photographs that he knows do not exist, picking through his belongings in search of a diary or a letter, for he knows that he must have had parents or friends or siblings and he thinks that they must have left him _something_ , _anything_ , to let him know who he is . But the only clues he has about himself are the tattoo on the inside of his right wrist, _Milah_ scrawled inside of a heart, and his missing left hand.

Killian has tried to remember who this woman might have been so many times before he’s nearly driven himself mad. He must have loved her - why else would he tattoo her name onto his skin? And his hand… His body seems so accustomed to living without it and yet he has no memory of losing it. He’s visited doctors, asked dozens of specialists, but they all give him the same baffled non-answer: You have amnesia and we don’t know how it happened. Killian would throttle them if he could but he’s knows there’s no use.

Since then, he made the conscious decision to forget, because he’s never been able to recall memories from his past and he highly doubts he’ll suddenly start remembering through sheer force of will.

He takes his scarf off of the hanger and wraps it around his neck before shrugging on his leather coat. A flash of red always pops into his head when he puts on his coat and sometimes the smell of citrus and honeysuckle, hanging in the air for a moment until the hint of memory disappears altogether. Once he could have sworn he felt someone tugging on his lapel, the ghost of an impression of their body pressed up against his own, but that had faded away along with everything else.

The coat is far too old to be of much use anymore but Killian cannot stand the thought of getting rid of it. Sometimes he allows himself the hope that the coat might be the only thing his parents or his friends have left behind, hoping he would one day figure out what it meant.

But Killian Jones has become averse to change, and because of this he thinks it would be unlikely of him to leave his home and travel in search of a family he does not remember. He does not see any likelihood in finding people who have never looked for him, however great his hope that they exist. His job down by the harbor keeps him content: the view of the sea calms his thoughts and selling and moving antiques is hardly a stressful area of employment. He likes walking to work and going down to the docks on his lunch break and sometimes going to the pub to halfheartedly chat up the waitresses. He likes coming home at five and eating Chinese takeout while watching the telly (although he’s getting rather tired of that CSI show; it’s become predictable).

It doesn’t seem to make much sense for him to dislike predictability in TV shows, but he likes his literature and theatre and films to be impulsive. Perhaps it is because he cannot do it for himself. Perhaps it is because they might present insight. Perhaps they will enlighten him, remind him of a moment in his past. Perhaps they will suddenly cut to breaking news, the faces of his family and friends desperate to know where he is.

He’s always wondered how a Brit like himself ended up in Washington, in a sleepy little town on the coast, working at an antiques warehouse where he rarely saw more than three people a day. _Hell_ , he doesn’t even recall being from England, but most people hear his accent and assign him the nationality. He has thought up reasons for years. As usual, he has never come close to penetrating the road-block in his head that prevents him from knowing his old life.

Killian walks the short distance to the coffee shop from his flat, nearly running into a thin man leaning against the wall, reading a newspaper. The man looks up and nods at him before returning to his reading. Killian doesn’t know quite what to make of him; he’s seen this fellow before and for reasons he can’t explain, he feels as though this man is watching him.

Inside, he orders a latte and what looks to be the most fattening thing on the menu. He likes to sit at the table by the window; he has sat there every time he comes in. As he waits for his coffee, he notices a woman sitting at the adjacent table. He has never seen her before but she’s wearing a red leather jacket and he’s positive it’s the same shade of red he sees when he slips on his own. She’s sipping a black liquid, most likely coffee, judging by her sleep-deprived eyes and the tightness around her mouth. She looks to be made entirely of the stuff, as if she’s been filled to the brim with coffee to keep her afloat. Her limbs are slender and her hair is blonde; the sunlight hits the strands and she practically glows. She has wonderful hands; he notices that she has ink splotches on the pads of her fingers and she is now scribbling furiously into a journal or a notebook. Occasionally she glances up from her notebook to check something on the laptop in front of her. She looks like a small island floating amidst her ocean of knowledge – _perhaps that should be my pick up line for this one -_ he thinks.

Glancing at the door (it is now seven thirty in the morning; he has normally left by now and he’s most definitely going to be late for work), Killian grabs his latte and pastry and walks over to her. She looks up at him and he sees something like shock and embarrassment flicker across her eyes before a neutral expression slides into place.

He does not understand; does he know her? Have they dated? Killian doubts that; no matter how drunk he’s gotten before, there’s no way he’d forget a woman as beautiful as this. He’s suddenly very aware of his worn in plaid shirt and faded jeans; not much of an impression to make, he thinks woefully.

She fiddles with the papers to her right and her entire body is suddenly wound up as tight as a spring. He considers the fact that he should leave, if her body language is anything to go on. But he doesn’t want to leave and he can’t figure out why the bloody hell not. She’s familiar, he’s certain of it; something in those green eyes of hers hold onto him and refuse to let him go.

She’s looking at him curiously, her head cocked to one side and Killian realizes he must look a complete _arse_ , staring at her without saying a word. Something in her face gives him the feeling that she understands people very well.

"Hello." He notices that his voice is scratchy – since when has he been nervous talking to a girl? And since when was he only capable of uttering single-word sentences?

"Hello." Her voice is pleasant, lower than he had expected. "Won’t you sit down?" She pushes the chair out toward him with her foot and he sits down across from her.

"I’ve only got a mo’ before I’ve got to run to work, but I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Killian Jones." He extends his good hand and she grasps it, doesn’t even acknowledge the missing one and her hand is so warm and small in his that he momentarily forgets his despair over who and where he’s from.

"I’m Emma Swan," she says and he likes the way she sounds, straightforward and direct, as if intelligence and facts and theories are welling up inside of her. He’s only got a few minutes to find out what he wants to know, so he asks her outright if she’s single. The shock on her face is nearly priceless and before he leaves, he’s made sure he’s gotten her number. Walking to work, Killian whistles some annoying new pop song he’d heard on the radio, and he’s so deliciously happy that he’s thinking ridiculous things like _Sixth time’s the charm_.

Back in the coffee shop, Emma Swan remains at her table, staring down at her notes with a dogged determination. The man outside the window folds up his newspaper and smiles to himself. He imagines the Savior had not prepared for this.


	2. Coffeeshop Blues

**Storybrooke**

Emma had been one of the first to suggest that someone return from the Enchanted Forest after the curse had taken its effect. To find us, she’d told everyone. Someone needs to find us. And she’d hated the desperation in her voice, but she couldn’t bear the idea of leaving everything behind again, not after she’d fought so hard to win it all back. Regina had sighed for what seemed like the millionth time and told her, a strained evenness in her voice, that it simply couldn’t be done.

“You and Henry are the only ones from this realm. The curse will not allow exceptions.”

Killian shifted his weight back and forth and Emma could tell he was about to say something. She glared at him, a childish gesture, but she was still annoyed over the situation with Tinkerbell – oh dear God, she wasn’t jealous of _Tinkerbell_ , was she? – and she hated that she still hadn’t forgotten about that damn kiss. Normally, she could block things out like that with ease; the amount of one-night stands she’d disappeared on had honed the skill. So why couldn’t she stop replaying that kiss in her head?

 _Because it was a really damn good kiss_ , whispered the traitorous voice in her head, the one she’s sure her mother and Henry would tell her to listen to. As always, Emma ignored it.

“There has to be another way,” she said again, bristling when Regina rolled her eyes.

“You Charming’s don’t seem to grasp the concept of ‘it can’t be done’.” The look on Regina’s face was pure disdain, but her expression softened when her gaze landed on Henry.

When she spoke next, her voice was strained. “Emma.” She sighed and Emma could see that this wasn’t any easier for her, either. “If I could change it, I would.”

Later, as they stood at the edge of the town line, it took all of Emma’s self-control not to cling to the ground and let the curse wash over her. She looked over at Hook, who had stepped forward to say goodbye.

“That’s quite the vessel you captain there, Swan.”

She laughed, even though her whole chest ached at the sudden realization of just how much she was going to miss him. His face softened and his smile spoke of too many things: of missed chances and lost opportunities.

“There’s not a day will go by that I won’t think of you.”

_Find me, Hook. Please find me and bring me back._

But all she could manage was, “Good.”

As she drove away, Emma thought he might have understood.

**Enchanted Forest**

Bloody buggering hell, where was that damned noise coming from?

Killian was sprawled across a feather bed, one arm thrown across his face to block out the light. He groaned as the tapping grew louder, reluctant to leave the warmth of the goose-down mattress. The inn he was staying at was a damn sight nicer than most of the places he’d had the misfortune to sleep in during his hunt for the Jolly Roger. His mind felt sluggish and heavy; chancing a peek at the nightstand next to his bed, Killian saw his flask upturned on the wood, small drops of liquid occasionally hitting the floor beneath.

One-handed pirate with a drinking problem? He had that down pat.

Grumbling, he threw the sheets to the side and was met by harsh, glaring sunlight and a bird rapping persistently against the window.

Shuffling over to the bird’s perch, Killian regarded it with thinly-veiled annoyance.

“Off with you,” he shouted, tapping his hook against the glass. The bird merely cocked its head in response. “Leave a man in peace! Go on!”

It kept pecking at the glass.

“Bloody hell,” Killian muttered, turning away from the window and picking up his shirt from the floor. He thanked gods he no longer cared for that he’d woken up alone. Even the idea of replacing Swan with another woman left an unpleasant coil of knots in his gut.

Emma. He clenched his eyes shut as he pulled on his boots, the image of her erupting in his head. Killian had replayed their parting moments over and over, that one word haunting both his waking life and his dreams.

_“Good.”_

Never had a word plagued him before, taunting him as he tried to sleep. He could still see her broken smile as he’d walked away from her; even now he couldn’t help but think she’d wanted him to come with her, wanted him to chase after her and refuse to let her go.

The bird was still rapping on the window.

“Dammit!” he shouted, striding over to the window to shove the bloody bird off the sill if that’s what it took. This time he noticed the small bit of parchment attached to the bird’s leg, as well as a tiny purple vial.

Cupping the bird in one hand, Killian brought it into the room where it happily flew to his bed and nestled onto it. His hook made the process of untying the paper from the bird’s leg painstakingly slow. Unraveling it, after several minutes of cursing the bird’s very existence, Killian read the words upon it.

 _Find Emma and make sure she remembers_.

Gathering his belongings hurriedly, Killian ran down the stairs of the inn and into the courtyard. When it came to love, he certainly didn’t need to be told twice.

**Langley, Present Day**

Emma suspects that – whoever this Killian Jones guy is – he doesn’t want to be found. There’s almost nothing on him; she’s spent months accumulating all sorts of reports on him and the most she knows about the man is that he may know how to play the guitar.

A somewhat dodgy case request had filtered in several months ago when her PI work had hit a lull: someone wanted Emma to find their long-lost son, but this “someone” had remained nameless, faceless and voiceless. Her only form of communication with them was through letter-writing, actual pen to paper letter-writing, a fact that irritated her to no end. Every single time she tried to pin a number to the address, they would send her something from another one. It made her want to pull out her hair in frustration.

Today is the day that Emma decides to give the case up. She hasn’t a clue as to where to start looking for this man and if it weren’t for a worn photo of him, seated in what looks to be a diner and wearing a suspicious amount of leather, Emma wouldn’t even know what he looked like.

She didn’t like being wrong and she certainly didn’t like being sent on a wild goose chase.

As she stares down at her report, Emma takes a sip of her Americano, pursing her lips at the flavor. It’s not hot cocoa by any stretch of the imagination, but she needs caffeine to keep her focused. Her report is a scant six pages long and even that had been difficult to eke out.

_It’s time to let this one go, Swan. You gave it your best shot, but some people just don’t want to be found._

Emma can attest to that and wonders once again why she likes tracking people down as much as she does. She’d hate it if someone came looking for her, ripping away at the safe wall she’d built around her and Henry.

Looking up from her notes to see what time the clock on the wall reads, Emma finds herself staring up at none other than Killian Jones himself. Her heart slams itself against her ribs so forcefully that she’s relatively surprised it doesn’t pop out of her chest. She can’t remember how to close her mouth and she’s both terrified and strangely relieved that he’s standing in front of her.

He looks almost exactly like his picture, albeit with far less leather. He’s not wearing the earring either. It’s probably a smart decision to ditch the shiver-me-timbers pirate get-up but she finds herself almost lamenting the change in clothing. She’d spent enough time staring at the photograph to know that the man could work the shit out of those leather trousers.

"Hello."

His voice jolts her back to reality; Emma realizes she’s been ogling him for the past thirty seconds. Something in his blue eyes pulls at her heart and she swallows at the sudden lump in her throat.

"Hello." She’s sure that she’s dazzling him with her knack for conversation. "Won’t you sit down?" As graceless and impolite as a cow, she kicks the chair across from her toward his feet. He sits, still smiling, and tells her his name, even though if he took the time to glance down, he’d notice it written all over her notes.

He asks her if she’s single and she wonders if it’s possible to have the wind kicked out of you while sitting down in a café. For a moment, she has no idea what to say. And then, like a thing possessed, she says no, and suddenly they’re exchanging phone numbers and she’s telling him her name and then he’s gone, out the door and on to work.

She looks down at her notes and considers following him to the antiques warehouse. Thinking better of it, she begins to gather all of her things into her bag, glancing up and locking eyes with a man outside the window. Emma knows he’s been there all morning and had thought nothing of it before. But now, as he stares her down through the glass, she can’t help the instinct that kicks in: This guy is trouble and she’s going to figure out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Notes: Squeeeee, I’m so excited to keep the ball rolling! Any thoughts on who the creepy guy outside the window is or who’s gonna mess with Hook’s memories? Your thoughts and questions are always welcome :)

**Author's Note:**

> End Notes: So, thoughts? Definitely going to be a multi-chapter fic and I’ve already got the next chapter outlined so hopefully I will post soon, my dears! And the number six? A fathom is six feet deep and I liked the idea of Killian getting stuck on a nautical numeral :) Also, title stolen from a Black Keys song.


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